


Wicked Game

by CumberCurlyGirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dream Sex, Dubious Consent, Ficlet, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, Light Bondage, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Smut, Wax Play, Wet Dream, toplock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 10:48:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14851301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CumberCurlyGirl/pseuds/CumberCurlyGirl
Summary: John wakes to find himself tied up in Sherlock’s bed. Is he dreaming?





	Wicked Game

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Chris Isaak's Wicked Game. Such a sexy song.

_What a wicked game you played to make me feel this way_

_What a wicked thing to do to let me dream of you_

_Wicked Game – Chris Isaak._

 

[ _https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jBD3w6__Dn4_ ](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DjBD3w6__Dn4&t=NjU1MTRkY2E4NzE5MzZiZWMyNTdhMGYyOGY2ZGM1OTc2NjZiODljYyxRbXlkbnBycA%3D%3D&b=t%3AE_mMqdebz4-swOpRUEDH6A&p=https%3A%2F%2Fcumbercurlygirl.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F172019293652%2Fwicked-game&m=1)

Darkness…

Darkness…

John’s eyelids fluttered and he perceived flickers of light before they shut again and he went back down.  

Time passed.

Up again, towards consciousness.  His eyes opened halfway. His vision was unfocused and hazy, his body heavy. _Where was he?_ Slowly, his mind sharpened and things came into focus.

 He did not immediately recognize where he was. He tried to sit up but could not. His hands were tied above his head to something, the headboard of the bed on which he lay, John guessed. He was dressed just as he had been last night, in pyjama bottoms and a T-shirt. He remembered sitting by the fire with a glass of wine and a book. _How had he gotten here? Where was here?_

He looked around the room. Dozens of lighted candles lit an otherwise dark room. He squinted and searched the shadows.  Realization dawned on him. He knew where he was. He was still in the flat. This was Sherlock’s room.  

In a corner of the room, he could make out a dark form seated on a chair, unmoving. Staring in disbelief, he recognized the curly hair and long white fingers, steepled in a familiar pose.

“Sherlock?” John said.

No answer.

“Sherlock, is that you?” he said, louder. “What the fuck?”

The figure rose slowly and took a few steps toward the bed.

It was indeed Sherlock, and he gazed at John intently with… _what, curiosity? Desire_?

“Sherlock, really, what the actual fuck?” John demanded.

“Be quiet John; don’t speak,” he said firmly, in a low voice, pressing a finger to his lips.  

What the bloody hell was going on, had Sherlock drugged him?  He wouldn’t put it past the crazy bastard, to be doing some sort of weird experiment, and the weirdness of this situation would be an understatement _._

John pulled at the ropes that bound his wrists, testing them.

Sherlock closed the distance to the bed and spoke again.

 “John.” he purred, “Just relax and enjoy, you don’t want to wake yourself up now do you?”

  _Am I dreaming?_   John considered this possibility.  It made more sense than any other explanation his still fuzzy mind could manufacture.  He was going to go with it for now.  He stopped struggling.

Sherlock looked down on him, his gaze sweeping him from head to toe. He reached down and touched John’s hair, running his fingers through it. At this touch, a shiver ran through John’s body and he wanted to speak.  A torrent of unspoken words, trapped inside of him for the year he had known Sherlock, welled up and caught in his throat, but he forced them back and remained silent. If this was, in fact, a dream, he might feel safe enough to say them, if not… well, he wasn’t ready for that yet, wasn’t sure he’d ever be.

Sherlock’s fingers traced John’s lips, chin, and jaw.  He moved down to John’s collarbone. Suddenly John realized his tee shirt was gone. He was certain he’d had it on when he woke.  _Checkmark in the “it’s a dream” column._

Sherlock continued to look at John, without smiling, intent, his blue cat-like eyes glittering.

He was wearing what he always wore, a dark form-fitting suit. He was also wearing that damnable purple shirt, the one that perfectly contrasted with his pale skin and dark hair.  How John wondered if he looked as good under his clothing as he looked in it. He’d never actually seen Sherlock naked before. He could feel another shiver pass through his body, settling between his legs where he felt the beginnings of an erection.

As if reading John’s mind, Sherlock took off his jacket, and carefully folding it, placed it on a nearby chair. However, he did not disrobe further. Instead, he sat on the bed next to John.  John’s gaze focused on those perfect lips as he watched them move closer.  Sherlock bent and kissed him. His tongue slid into John’s mouth, searching. John could smell him, feel his heat.

_Oh God, oh God, oh bloody motherfucking hell!_

Sherlock cupped John’s face in his hands and continued to kiss him slowly but hungrily. John’s mind was whirling, and he felt like he was falling through space as he closed his eyes and let himself be kissed.  He did not ever want to stop this…this... whatever it was that was happening to him.

Sherlock moved his kisses to John’s neck and ears.  He kissed John's shoulders, his scar.  John kept his eyes closed and concentrated on the feel of hot breath against his skin, the lips ghosting across his chest, pausing to circle a nipple with a tongue, causing John to gasp and arch his back.

Sherlock’s lips continued their journey down John’s body until he reached the top of the pyjama pants.  He ran his tongue slowly under the waistband across John’s belly, the tip of it sliding over the end of John’s dripping cock as it went. He grasped the pyjama bottoms,  pulled them down John’s legs, then tossed them to the floor.

John lay fully exposed before Sherlock, who now stood beside the bed. Helpless, with his hands tied and his cock hard, John breathed shallowly and wondered what would come next.  He didn’t have to wait long to find out. 

Sherlock smiled an almost devilish grin. He picked up one of the burning candles from the bedside table and held it over John’s shoulder. 

“John, if you tell me to stop, I will. I will end this and let you go.”

John said nothing.

Sherlock tipped the candle and a drop of hot wax fell, landing on John’s collarbone. He inhaled sharply, arching his back involuntarily. Sherlock placed another burning drop on a forearm tied above John’s head, then between his nipples, then on his stomach, then his hip. John could not believe how this burning pain felt so delicious.  Sherlock paused interminably between each drip, making him wait, prepare, anticipate.

When he finally dripped the hot wax on the tender flesh of John’s inner thigh, John could not contain himself any longer and cried out, “Sherlock!”

“Shh,” Sherlock warned, but put down the candle.

John was panting now, and as he looked at Sherlock, he could see the outline of arousal under his trousers.

  _If only my hands were free I could reach out and touch it. God, I want to touch him._

Sherlock unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves.

John pulled at the restraints that bound his wrists. _This is so unfair!_  He wanted to embrace Sherlock, to touch him and run his fingers through his hair as he had imagined doing so many times. He wanted desperately to tell him that he loved him and had wanted him since the day they met.  Tears of frustration came to John’s eyes.

Sherlock was now on the bed on all fours over John and his mouth quickly enveloped John’s cock. John looked down and saw Sherlock’s curly hair, saw his lips around his cock, saw him slide down, taking him impossibly deep. Felt the velvety hot smoothness of his mouth.  Sherlock stroked him relentlessly and John felt heat building in his belly.

Sherlock placed his hands under John’s thighs and pressed them upwards, tilting his hips, then removing his mouth from John’s cock, moved it down across his bollocks to his arsehole, kissing and licking as he went. Sherlock’s tongue teased John’s opening, circling it. John gasped with pleasure.  Sherlock’s tongue darted forward into John. He alternated between licking and penetrating. Licking and penetrating. The sensation was overwhelming. Sherlock’s hand went to John’s cock and he stroked it while fucking John with his tongue.

 _"_ Sherlock, Oh Sherlock. Oh God, I’m going to come!” he cried out.  

He had imagined being with Sherlock before, but this was so real, so fucking real. 

John came, spurting ribbons of semen over his belly as his hips bucked, Sherlock’s tongue still buried deep in his arse.

John closed his eyes as he spasmed and writhed and gasped for air.

*****

                                                          

It was quiet and dark. John, breathing heavily, opened his eyes. He was alone. He was alone in his room, twisted up in his sheets. His hair was plastered to his sweaty brow, and he could feel his wet pyjamas, sticky with semen, clinging to his softening cock. 

 

*****

One floor below, Sherlock lay awake. Listening.

 


End file.
